Day 14 – A Walk in the Snow Makes my skin glow I feel nervous at first – Will it get worse? Will I get stuck in a drift? Too much snow to shift? Does ice lie beneath? I grit my teeth I put on my warm hat And that is that.
Once I’m out There is nowt Can stop me From feeling giddy It’s all white It’s alright Don’t fight Snow’s delight
Snow’s amazing At transforming Even a mild Mannered man to a child- like state of play No more grey Clouds today May they stay away For ever and a day
HAPPINESS IS A JOURNEY NOT A DESTINATION.
For a long time it seemed to me that life was about to begin – real life but there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life. This perspective has helped me to see there is no way to happiness. Happiness is the way. So treasure every moment you have and remember that time waits for no one.
Souza
Eira has played a significant role in my musical and personal journey since we first met when she became professor of harp at the RNCM in 1992. I was in my 3rd year when she arrived fresh from her studies in the USA. She made such a strong impression on me with her crystal clear imaginative ideas on the shape she wanted the harp department to take. She was artistic director of two International Harpweeks which took place while I was a student. Both events were exceptional and exciting. It was a big deal to have the spotlight on the harp and that it was happening up North. I was studying with Frank Sternefeld at the time and I learnt so much from Eira. She initiated the RNCM harp ensemble and our smaller quartet, Fir Chlis with Mary Ann Kennedy, Manon Llwyd and Kathryn Rees. We had some amazing adventures and we went on tour in Wales – we were even on Welsh TV!
Fast forward some 14 years – I reconnected with Eira during a difficult time in my life and I asked to go and play for her. Off I went with my harp to her studio in Stockport for a consultation lesson. After an extremely encouraging but realistic lesson, she suggested I come to the RNCM to complete a masters degree. I said yes. She thought I was kidding. Thanks to her support, I enrolled at the RNCM as a mature student in 2007 and I was able to dedicate all my energy to the harp and music after a rocky period during which I came close to giving it all up.
FAITH
When you walk to the edge of all the light you have And take that first step into the darkness of the unknown You must believe that one of two things will happen:
There will be something solid for you to stand upon, Or, you will be taught how to fly.
Patrick Overton 1975
I looked forward to my weekly lessons with eager anticipation. Being held accountable was priceless. I was highly motivated and I dedicated countless hours to improving myself as a musician and harpist. We listened and talked a lot and Eira inspired me with her artistic ideas and her faith in my skill as a musician. I studied reams of repertoire and had some exquisite experiences playing solo works and chamber music as well as preparing orchestral parts. Harp class was a very steep learning curve about constructive feedback. Some tough hands were dealt around discipline, and my musical ideas were challenged persistently which led to my growth. She encouraged me to be myself and to express myself with my harp but always at the service of the music.
Eira cares for each of her students – she is empathic and compassionate whilst maintaining a healthy sense of detachment. She was there to congratulate us when we achieved the desired result and to console us when we didn’t. She continues to mentor students beyond the RNCM years and even though we don’t talk as often these days, when we do we pick up as though we’d spoken yesterday.
I enjoyed a vast array of extremely enriching orchestral opportunities at college. Orchestral playing was my true love and Manchester was the perfect base to reinforce that passion. A year long course became 2 years when I realised I wasn’t ready to perform a final recital yet. I was enjoying life in Manchester again, allowing myself to be steeped in that melting pot of music, culture and the arts. I also relished being surrounded by a sisterhood of harpists half my age – they were so energetic and supportive, and their carefree enthusiasm was contagious!
I was fortunate to work alongside Eira on several occasions, in particular with the Hallé when they performed works involving multiple harps. Performing operas from Wagner’s Ring Cycle under the baton of Sir Mark Elder were pinch-me moments. They were truly awesome experiences where I could observe and learn, and enjoy complete immersion in music. Eira is a consummate professional with great integrity, and her love and respect for music is immense and steadfast. She shares this with her students with open hearted generosity.
“Success is how high you bounce when you hit bottom”
George Patton
Student life wasn’t always rosy and chicken sandwiches became an institution. When times became too tough, it was reassuring to know I could contact Eira and soon be on her sofa with a glass of wine and a freshly prepared plate of comforting sandwiches lovingly made by Steve. I swear they were the culinary equivalent of a homely hearty hug. No matter what challenge I was facing, whether it was musical or personal, our dialogues never failed to appease my agitated emotions.
Eira’s prowess as a teacher is exceptional and she is held in high regard throughout the UK and internationally. Her ability to adapt to each student is a rare gift. Her knowledge of the repertoire seems limitless and her head was, and still is, constantly brimming with new ideas for her latest compositions and creative projects. Her ability to construct cohesive programmes for recitals, exams, auditions and performances is extraordinary, demonstrating her deep understanding of the performer and the works to be studied.
While I tutored at the Early Music Shop, I worked alongside 2 of Eira’s graduates, Louise Thomson and Alice Kirwan, and we invited Eira to act as artistic director for 2 Camac harp weekends which we organised in Saltaire. She tirelessly shared her love and enthusiasm for the harp and it’s no surprise that she’s in high demand as a guest tutor. Experiencing her deliver tuition with such clarity to a large group of absolute beginners was a memorable sight. Most of them had never seen a harp before let alone play one and I’m not sure they even read music! Most impressive of all was that the participants went away with radiant smiles and a sense of achievement, inspired to continue their journey with our fascinating instrument.
I can’t write about Eira without mentioning Steve. Steve is her rock. He’s her husband, personal chef, chauffeur, barista, recording engineer, technical support, sommelier, librarian, travelling companion, the list goes on. Steve is a placid, dependable, calm character who balances out Eira’s creative nature. They work so well together. They’re a dream team, a marriage made in heaven, possibly quite literally!
Teaching comes with its own challenges. Eira rarely left us high and dry and after class we would often congregate in the refectory to ease out of teacher/student mode while relaxing with a well earned drink. “STEEEEEEEEEVE”!!! we exclaimed joyously upon his arrival. Following this enthusiastic outburst came a chorus of giggles that resounded through the huge space as he approached his giddy welcoming committee cautiously. He arrived to whisk Eira safely to her next destination. Her sense of relief was tangible. Another long teaching day was nearly done. The atmosphere changed as she became more relaxed, safe in the knowledge that it was nearly time to head home to recharge her batteries and enjoy some quiet time.
Eira is blessed with an inexhaustible sense of curiosity and her musical journey has taken her to a myriad of exciting destinations across the world. She has a particular affinity with Greece and all things Greek. She has taught several Greek harpists, many of whom have thriving careers. An accomplished chamber musician, she loves working with her Greek flautist Anna Mari Rosa and Eira has even learnt Greek. Eira has never lost her sense of curiosity and she’s always keen to learn new skills. Filakia Eira!
Emotional
Inspirational
Resilient
Artistic
Soon after my arrival at the RNCM Eira gave me my Happy Box. Inside was a small book of quotations called The Real Meaning of Success and a small tortoise made of stone. Eira is a fervent advocate of slow practice and she often reminded us of Aesop’s Fable about the tortoise and the hare – the tortoise always wins in the end. I filled my Happy Box during my 2 years at the RNCM and many of those happy memories involve Eira. She gives so generously to her students, inspiring us to be the best version of ourselves as musicians and human beings.
Eira always encouraged me to embrace the journey. I’m so excited to find out what Eira does next on her journey.
Eira – thank you so much for all you have taught me and shared with me over the years. From the Heart – Rhian
A couple of weeks ago my friend and mentor Gareth Boot (Google him) suggested I join the above challenge and I must admit I’ve really enjoyed getting back in the habit of writing regularly again. Gareth helped me kick a 30 a day smoking habit and a month later I gave booze the Boot too! He’s inspired me to walk and run over 1,200 miles for 2 years in a row and we’re revving up for my professional challenge in 2022. The challenge was set by Kate Beddow – thanks for the inspiration Kate if you’re reading this! I much prefer writing with a Bic and a pad of A4 paper but I can’t share those scribblings so here we go. Much of it is stream of consciousness writing. I’m including a few posts written when time got the better of me as well as the half hearted can’t be arsed entries too…
Day 6 – Childhood memories of Winter
When I was a child, Winter was wild and sometimes mild. I often smiled and laughed with my big sister as we played in the snow during the school holidays. We built a snowman and Mam came and inserted a nasal carrot and coal buttons in the appropriate places. She topped him off with my red and white striped beanie hat before marching me upstairs straight in the bath before I caught my death.
Mam was something of a tyrant. Well she had to be with 2 unruly feisty characterful girls to bring up while Dad worked away. Dad wasn’t around much when we were small, much to my regret. Mam was nicer when he was home for 2 months, then he went back to sea for 6, and I wished I could go with him with every bone in my body. I was Dad’s girl, still am. Dad was fun. Dad was funny. Mam was stern and never shy with a sharp slap when we were bad. That’s what she said and I believed her, and I often thought Dad stayed away because I was bad, because I was naughty. I give her credit, she raised me to be a good girl and after several bouts of counselling and therapy, I’d say I’m getting there, although I have my moments.
Now where was I? Ah yes. Winter. My sister and I revelled in a delight of snowball fights but I almost always came out worse off as she’s my senior by almost 4 years. On the rare occasion I did try to retaliate when I caught her off guard (tactics!) I inevitably got in trouble with Mam and I’d take refuge in the safe comforting darkness of the cupboard under the stairs, right at the back behind piles of toys and books, hidden behind a jumble of long coats. “Rhian! RHIAN!!!” her cries crescendoed. I knew I was for it.
My sister was slim and incredibly athletic and she could be a bit of bully. We fought hotly and I remember the time I drew blood. It was an oral wound. Mam went ballistic. Life was unfair. My sister was never in trouble with Mam. So it seemed.
Dad was the household chef and when he was home, we ate like princesses. In Winter we ate steaming bowls of simple vegetable stew punctuated with luxurious nuggets of lamb that had been gently simmered for hours, creating a delicious watery broth full of flavour. Small globules of fat glistened invitingly hinting at how much flavour lay within the liquor. The tender meat melted in my mouth. Everything did. It had been cooked for such a long time. A pretty plate of fresh bread and butter accompanied it and I always pleaded for the crust, my favourite bit, slathered with lashings of butter. Good job nobody else liked it. On a good day I got a pair of heels.
Dad’s food tasted of love.
I remember he had a tub of spice rub for chicken, a recipe shared with him by one of the Indian cooks on the ship where he was chief engineer. My juvenile palate couldn’t handle the heat and I’d regretfully peel the appetising charred reddish brown searingly hot skin away from the flesh leaving it to one side. After he died we scoured the house for that recipe to no avail.
Sometimes Father was home for Christmas and the aromas emanating from the kitchen were divine. He made a big fuss of the turkey and he started simmering the giblets on Christmas Eve to make his flavour-full gravy. On special occasions we ate in the parlour with its draughty bay windows and Christmas was fun. We’d pull crackers and laugh as we enjoyed the most important meal of the year. God I want a turkey sandwich now and I don’t even like turkey! But I only want one made by Dad.
After our meal we retired to the comfort of the living room, cosily huddled on the sofa as close as possible to the gas fire. The smell of hot polyester was alarmingly comforting. I was brought up in my mother tongue, Welsh and one Christmas, after a particularly enjoyable escapist film I uttered my first 2 words in English – “The End”.
NB – I had a fantastic childhood and this blog post is in no way a tirade against the way I was parented. I dare you to show me perfect parents or a family that isn’t dysfunctional in some way, shape or form!
Day 5 – A Candle flickers on the fireplace…
It lights up my face
Making the place look more cheery
When the weather outside’s so dreary
Day 1 What does Winter mean to me?
Winter means cold weather. Ice. Snow. Rain! Well it’s the UK after all. I love getting cold then warm again.
Winter also means fear. There’s an inherent sense of danger with strong winds and falling trees and leaves making the pavements more slippery. Winter means comfort foods like warming soups, lipsmacking curries and hearty stews. It also means salad which calms my energy. They’re made more seasonal with the addition of walnuts and pomegranates.
Winter means walking through icy crisp frosty fields, the gloam rising in the early morning as the sun makes its appearance later and later, if at all. It’s always there though.
One of my favourite things about Winter is a glass cold icy day with a perfectly blue cloudless sky. I needs squint upon its glory.
Winter is about embracing the darkness, huddling snugly under soft squishy soothing blankets, and daytime naps smuggled in around Christmas time.
Day 2 What’s my favourite Winter/Festive book and why?
A Christmas Carol because it has a happy ending
Day 3 – How do I feel about cold weather?
The cold leaves me cold, feeling old. More suited to warmer climes, balmy isles, something inside me dies when the leaves turn crisp and brown and fall down on the pavements through town. I drown my chilly sorrows with sweet treats, they beats away some of the chill which pervades my bones right to the heart of me. I wither. I fade. I sleep. And sleep. And I sleep some more.
And then, one December day each single ray of sunshine fills my soul with unabated joy. Blue skies seem somehow inappropriate in the darker months but they’re a welcome blessing caressing me out of hibernation for a precious few hours.
The gift of a perfect Winter’s Day is better than anything I’ll find under my tree. And it’s free. Like me.
I just re-read a couple of my old blog posts and thought, hang on, this feels familiar. I wonder what’s going on here. There’s a pattern for sure, just that now I don’t go to the pool, haven’t been since the start of the pandemic which is when my psoriasis started properly, and my playing is a rare bit rarer these days. It’s not all doom and gloom but I’m certain I need to have a chat with someone about SAD.
I like Mondays. I used to loathe them. I went through a phase of loathing most days, when I had no work and little to look forward to, not much to get excited about. I could barely haul my limp sorry soul out of bed to perform the simplest most basic function, like making a cup of tea. Bed was a far better and safer option. At the end of August I experimented by starting my week with the 9.45am Aquafit class. By now I get a bit upset if anything comes up to prevent me from plunging feet first into the bracing depths on Monday morning. This morning was no exception. I grinchingly grumped my way to the pool, having woken later than intended. Our tirelessly energetic instructor Anna proceeded to lift our spirits with gusto, reaching inside the unseen recesses of her equipment store for an inflatable Dalmatian to inspire us to improve our spotty dogs. It’s quite hard to stifle a belly laugh when you’re up to your chest in water. You should try it. It takes Anna to crack the gags though. The atmosphere following her class is electric. We all bounce out of the baths with flushed cheeks and broad smiles. My core and legs are getting stronger and I’m able to engage my abs to do those floating crunches without my legs sinking downwards. The next step is crunching without the support of the pink woggle.
Sunday was my day off and after the briefest of visits into town for gift shopping, the rest of the day was spent relaxing at home and getting back in touch with doing what I felt like doing. I hummed and haa-ed about putting up the Christmas decorations I’d been toying with since last weekend. It felt slightly ridiculous and indulgent to put them up just for me. I’m glad I did and loved the time I spent musing on where to put the small black baby Jesus on my South African tree amongst other sentimental favourite decorations gathered from my travels. I spend a lot of time in my kitchen so my fridge got a seasonal decking too.
My parents really went to town with decorations and I loved this time of year, seeing our house all blinged up with fabulous fancy fairy lights and glitzy tinsel. To keep us from a surfeit of mischief, we were set to task licking the sticky ends of paper strips to make decorative chains. They dulled in comparison to the shop bought garish metallic technicolour frilly foil. Everything felt safe, cosy and warm as the four of us bronzed ourselves in front of the gas fire boosted up to its maximum four bar capacity, reserved for special occasions and spells of extreme cold. I can still smell the hot polyester. Chef Dad would occasionally get up to check on the turkey giblets that were stewing to make stock for his inimitable gravy.
We had transparent plastic Santa money boxes that were imaginatively filled with Smarties. I remember the mouth watering frustration I felt at being unable to dislodge that single solitary tantalising purple chocolate jewel from Father Christmas’s foot. It’s probably still there. Mum’s unwanted tights were hung up and packed with tangerines and a selection of nuts that went untouched well into the new year as we gorged ourselves on breakfast chocolate, sanctioned for one day only. Raw almonds remained tightly encased in their impenetrable spotted shells and eventually went in the bin.
Last week I went on my first Meetup in town. The first hour was fine with pleasant conversation and no tumbleweed moments. Then I got a bit tired and hungry and soon made my polite excuses. Seven of us had signed up for the evening, perhaps hoping to forge new and meaningful connections or at the very least offer ourselves an alternative to an evening whiled away at home. Two people turned up, both men, and they spent a significant amount of time glued to their mobiles for various reasons. Mobiles have killed the art of conversation and I really feel technology has made us more distant. They’re always there, lurking in our pockets or handbags, waiting for a swipe, some TLC and an emoji. Or at least five in my case. I abhor that panic I feel when I’ve misplaced my phone, especially if I’m driving. So no, I wouldn’t be without my mobile either. It’s on silent if I’m with other people and I don’t look at it unless I’m really bored.
This year I have a plan in place. I’m working until an early finish on Christmas Eve and on the 25th I’m going on a new walk. Although I’m sociable, I like quiet Christmases these days and this will be my first one spent sober. That’ll be interesting. There will be plenty of reading, snoozing and contemplation as well as looking ahead to the secret promises of 2019. I have a vision of my ideal Christmas – maybe next year? After my walk, I’m baking for next Christmas before having my dinner.
One Christmas I baked a cake with a lot of fresh orange in it, so much orange in fact that it rendered it unpalatable. Refusing to throw away the costly fruits of my lengthy labour, it sat in its tin awaiting its debatable fate. On a whim I offered a piece to a hungry visitor the following November who ended up in absolute raptures over it. I suspiciously cut myself a sliver, expecting a citric smack in the chops. Gone was that violent tang only to be replaced by the mellowest richest darkest fruitiest Christmas cake I’ve ever tasted. I had fed it well and it repaid me the favour.
I’ve been on the lookout for a new swimsuit for a while and saw one in town. I tried it on and it was a good fit, last season’s model but that really doesn’t bother me. It had a nice pattern and the requisite sporty back. I started to fixate on my thighs. I shouldn’t have looked. They were wobbly. There’s wobbly, and there’s wobbly, and my thighs were like blancmange. Worst of all, gravity seemed to have taken hold! My intention when I started my pool classes was to partake in some form of enjoyable cardio exercise, which I do alongside my weekly Pilates class, as well as some home sessions in between for extra flexibility. Gym bunny I am not and while I wouldn’t exactly call myself sedentary, I spend a lot of time seated out of necessity. I can’t play the harp or type standing up. After a lifetime with nothing but fitful exercise, building a realistic sustainable fitness routine was all about how I felt rather than how I looked. The urge to throw in the towel was immense when I saw the result of what felt like 8 months’ hard workout amount to jellylike flesh. That familiar sense of shame stung bitterly as I cast my memory back to the “I don’t give a shit” moments in summer when I’d dared to reveal what I now realised had been a celebration of rose pink orange peel.
I was quite a carefree little girl but I remember the moment vividly, aged 8, when I sat down and looked at my thighs which had never bothered me before. I felt a leaden inescapable sense of revulsion and disgust at my bodily imperfections. That sense of physical self loathing has never really left me. It can spread to all areas of my self with lightning speed and can drag me swiftly to the plummeting depths of depression. After a quick consultation with a close friend, I’ve committed to three daily sets of squats to target my problem area. I know it will take time and I’ll never have ballerina legs but I don’t want to be a dancer. I want legs that will carry me into my later years without needing the hip replacement Mum had a few years ago. Then there’s matter of the slight hunch in her back from Osteoporosis. Of course, it’d be a bonus to still cut it in a cossie at 47.
One thing’s for sure, this time of year can certainly exacerbate loneliness. Being single for the majority of my life often leaves me feeling like a spare part, especially around the silly season. Yes, I’m fussy about who I spend time with and there’s no lonelier place than at the heart of a crowd of people. I crave a sense of belonging, and I know fundamentally it’s a belonging within myself. It’s about the struggle to integrate all parts of my self. Am I worthy of love? Is there such a thing as unconditional love? Can I accept myself as I am and could An Other? What do I need to change and how can I start that change process? You could say these are headfuck questions but they are important to ponder.
I’ve always been a bit of a loner. I like my own company and that’s a mixed blessing. You can have too much of a good thing! I found out my personality type. I’m an INFP -T:
“Mediator personalities are true idealists, always looking for the hint of good in even the worst of people and events, searching for ways to make things better. While they may be perceived as calm, reserved, or even shy, Mediators have an inner flame and passion that can truly shine. Comprising just 4% of the population, the risk of feeling misunderstood is unfortunately high for the Mediator personality type – but when they find like-minded people to spend their time with, the harmony they feel will be a fountain of joy and inspiration.”
That explains a lot. If you’re curious about your personality type, here’s the link to the website where you can do the test: https://www.16personalities.com
I’m in the throes of a massive transitional phase in my life where values, ideals and goals I once held dear don’t fit anymore. In many ways I’ve never felt lonelier but I believe this work on oneself can only be truly realised alone. In proofreading this post, I know I need to get out more but I have little interest in superficial small talk. And that’s ok. I want to be with people who light up my inner flame and passion! We’re in the minority!
If you’re reading this you’ll probably know who Llwyd was, and if you don’t understand attachment to a pet, read no further! This is a rather indulgent and sentimental tribute to my loyal loving companion ❤️❤️❤️
Ten days ago I made the painful decision to have Llwyd euthanised. She had just turned 17, the equivalent of about 86 human years. She hadn’t really been herself for the past year since she became deaf and she definitely entered the end of life stage over the past 2 months. Her coat dulled and she had matted patches of fur at the base of her spine where she couldn’t quite reach to groom herself. She went through phases of excellent health and vitality but a thyroid and kidney condition made her lethargic and prevented her from absorbing nutrients from her specialised food – unable to tell me she was feeling off colour, she deteriorated extremely rapidly, although she usually bounced back just as quickly.
A couple of months ago I took her back to see the vet – we hadn’t been for about a year as her health was stable with only the occasional bout of sickness which passed quite quickly. She loved Robert even though she hated visiting the surgery a mere 10 minute drive away which must have felt like a long rough ride on a rollercoaster to her. I only took her if it was absolutely necessary as I didn’t want to cause her any additional stress. He prescribed medicine to be administered orally once a day. Llwyd being Llwyd, treating her was an agonising ordeal, often resulting in a disgruntled cat and tears of frustration from me. I tried several options including pinning her down between my legs and wrapping her in a blanket which stressed us both out! Another tactic was to wait until she was in a deep sleep, then quickly open her mouth, shove the syringe in and thrust the plunger down, ejecting the foul tasting serum to the back of her throat. Most of the time this worked but occasionally, it ended up on the sofa as she struggled to escape. She eventually wised up to my ploys and slept at angles that made it awkward to access her mouth. This meant she wasn’t getting her medicine daily. She started to lose weight and drank copious quantities of water with an unquenchable thirst.
In her final months she became more and more attached to me and she was beside me within minutes of realising I wasn’t in the same room as her anymore. Velcro cat. I feel privileged that I’d earned her trust.
I’ve felt bereft, beside myself with sorrow and grief, inconsolably sad and lonely. I’ve sobbed heart wrenching tears from deep inside. There’s nobody to greet me when I come home or to say good morning to, or Bore Da in our case. Llwyd was 100% Welsh and never really got to grips with the English language. There is a huge void that can’t be filled yet. I know I projected much of my attachment and relationship stuff onto her and maybe that was OK? She didn’t seem to mind me venting my frustrations and innermost feelings out loud to her.
I’m absolutely certain I made the right choice though.
She died on the Sunday. On the Friday I went up to do the Yorkshire 3 Peaks challenge, an event for which I’d been training for months. She was waiting for me in the living room when I got back on Sunday afternoon and I knew straight away she wasn’t herself. She didn’t run towards me, she just stood staring. I greeted her with a loving caress but received no loud meowing or warm purring in return. Looking around, I saw that she’d been ill several times. She laid on her side looking exhausted. A while later she got up and started vomiting again. It was time for a trip to the emergency vet.
I stroked her head to calm her in the car. My excitement at completing the 3 Peaks disappeared.
After checking her over, Tom the empathic young vet discussed the options with me. They could keep her in for 2 days and treat her with lots of medication. A major operation was another choice. Or there was euthanasia. We both agreed the third option was the kindest choice. That’s what I would want for myself, I wouldn’t want to suffer and have a poor quality of life. Tom explained how things would go and I tried to listen while inside I was imploding, combusting, collapsing, melting, panicking about having to say goodbye to her. He took her away to give her the injection. When he brought her back in she laid on the floor, her eyes glazing over. She was going. I held her and spoke to her, trying to reassure her as well as myself that it wouldn’t hurt, how much she was loved and how she would be missed. I didn’t want to keep her in that transitional stage too long and I told Tom we were ready.
I collected her ashes 5 days later. That helped and that night I took the small cardboard tube decorated with a tranquil woodland scene with lush green grass and a carpet of bluebells to my bedroom, and she slept on the chest of drawers beside me. I felt a sense of peace at having her sleep at home for one last night. The following day I knew I had to scatter her ashes. Her remains didn’t belong in a cardboard tube, and now they’re dancing in the wind or swimming in stream water at various points on some of my favourite local walking routes.
I sometimes think I’m going mad. My rational brain knows she’s gone but I hear her. I hear the sound of the catflap door and part of me is momentarily excited, expectant, anticipating her calming reassuring presence. When I do my yoga practice, I feel her next to me showing me exactly how to do a cat stretch. I open a tin of mackerel and part of me expects her to patter towards me optimistically, hopeful for a flake of fishy flesh. And she doesn’t come! I see her through the kitchen window, returning home after checking her territory out. But it isn’t her. I feel her presence all the time. Our old routines will eventually start to take new shape and meaning.
Llwyd was feisty and characterful and not so long ago, she took on cats twice her size and had the upper hand. Paw! I loved watching her chase unwanted felines from her garden. I could hear her paws stomping the ground aggressively as she chased them off her land. On the other hand, she was super friendly with people and would seek out love and affection from complete strangers. A resourceful feline, when I was away for work, she got herself adopted for a couple of nights. She wasn’t interested in the food as much as love and affection. Cats and owners eh?
They say a house isn’t a home without a cat. Well I can vouch for that. Since she died, the house feels hollow, empty, lifeless, quiet, devoid of life and conversation. People have asked if I’ll get another cat. Are you kidding?!! The emotional investment is enormous, not to mention the financials and until I’m earning enough to sustain myself, I’m in no position to offer a safe and comfortable home to a pet.
I miss being woken in the early hours by her standing on my chest, poking my cheek with just the right amount of claw to rouse me from my slumber.
I miss her unconditional love. Her presence was a present.
It’s the end of an era. Llwyd’s soul is indelibly imprinted inside mine. I’m becoming adept at bereavement – death is an inevitable part of life. I feel a bit embarrassed rereading what I’ve written, especially during the pandemic with so much human loss and suffering, but I am a human suffering and a human learning. My grief for Llwyd is valid and is helping me resolve other losses. It’s tough though and her death has dredged up 17 years worth of memories, joys, sorrows and regrets.
I feel apathy towards life more often than I’d like. I know how ungrateful that sounds. I’m also menopausal and my hormones are all over the place. Making any major decisions now wouldn’t be a wise move but I can’t go on like this, feeling shit about my life. Don’t get me wrong, I feel intense gratitude and I truly can see and appreciate the positives, but some of the most important factors leading to a great quality of life are lacking.
So now what? The days get easier and time is healing me as I arrive nearer a sense of acceptance, although there are other darker days when my ego tells me it’s all doom and gloom and woe betide us and better to stay safely tucked up in bed. Helping others and keeping busy helps. Telling people helps too, although nobody welcomes sad news. Other days it feels right to stop, slow down and reflect.
Llwyd was a gift, a beautiful old soul
Rare Bit Blogging 